


Brushstrokes: A Study in Red

by TrakeniteTourist (auronlu)



Series: Bird Has Flown [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gap Filler, Gen, Mostly But Not Quite Entirely Platonic, Smidgen of UST, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3720349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auronlu/pseuds/TrakeniteTourist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After "Creatures of Beauty," the Doctor takes Nyssa to a secluded Eden to recover from her ordeal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brushstrokes: A Study in Red

_Nyssa: Is that it? Have you just forgotten about it all, already?_

_Doctor: No, but sometimes it doesn't do to dwell on things. *sighs* What's on your mind?_

_Nyssa: Did we change anything?_

_Doctor: Do we ever?_

_Nyssa: Well... yes! Don't we? Isn't that what you want to do? Isn't that why you said you left Gallifrey all those years ago? To make a difference?_

[...]

_Doctor: Sometimes, if you stare at a painting for too long and get too close to it, all you can see are the brushstrokes. The harder you stare, the more formless and meaningless it seems to become._

_Nyssa: And that's your analogy for the whole of the universe, is it? A painting you don't want to look at too closely?_

_\--_ _Creatures of Beauty_

_________

 

It was one of those unspoken covenants of those who flew aboard the TARDIS: no weeping. There were certain allowances, of course: they could hardly help but shed a few tears when one of their own died right there on the viewer before their eyes. Generally, however, his crew comported themselves stoically. There was shouting, arguing, even panic when the situation called for it, but grief was discreet and kept behind closed doors.

Or canvas.

He was not sure what had woken him in the dismal gray light before dawn. He had a vague impression of his companion's restless tossing, a small hand pressed against his back as if leaning against a wall. Now he heard nothing from her side of the tent. Rain pattered on the pitched roof that had proved not entirely weatherproof. He reached out tentatively, trying not to rouse her. His fingers sank into an empty sleeping bag and touched the mat beneath. Nyssa was gone. Her absence filled the empty space around him.

For a moment, the Doctor felt perilously close to panic himself. The horror of Veln was fresh in both their minds. This camping trip away from the TARDIS was partly a means to overcome their skittishness after that debacle. He had not dreamed there could be anything worse than watching a companion die, until forced to leave one to be tortured for three days before he could effect a rescue. Nyssa had taken a beating in both mind and body, while he had begun to doubt the wisdom of bringing companions along for his adventures. He refused to let himself imagine anything at all as he lunged for the door-seal. Thrusting head and shoulders out, he relaxed at once, spotting the small silhouette perched on the stony outcrop they had been using for a picnic table. She was sitting in the rain, despite her usually notable good sense. The rain nearly muffled the sound of sobs.

He hesitated, torn between awkwardness, discretion and concern. Comforting had never been his forté in any incarnation save his third, and she had clearly left the tent for privacy’s sake. Yet Nyssa was not one to show pain. Nor could he bear to leave her unguarded. Not yet. Not so soon. With a sigh, he flung on his shoes and coat and hat, then stepped out into light drizzle. His nose twitched at the ancient, heavy air, redolent with the musty scent of the Permian rainforest. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he scuffed through springy mosses and horsetails to the crest of the knoll. Damp began to seep through his coattails as soon as he sat down beside her.

Hands laced around her knees, head bowed, she was silent while she composed herself, eyes jammed shut in an effort to stopper tears. At least she had not flinched at his footsteps, assured that he was the only other person in this primordial age. At length, she let out a wavering breath. "I— I'm sorry. I find rain soothing. I didn't mean to bring you out in it."

Gingerly, he settled an arm behind her shoulders, feeling the body warmth bleeding away through her soaked turtleneck. "What's the matter?" An outsider might find his emotionless tone off-putting, but there was a gentleness to those bald words. They were stripped of coercion, not compassion. He would not press her to speak before she was ready.

Nyssa leaned closer and closed her eyes again, but only for an instant. They opened with a jerk. "It's Veln... no, not that." He had shifted his hold, trying to avoid half-healed bruises that he knew lay under her clothes. She burrowed back against his arm. "I keep thinking about Veline. Named after their world, I suppose."

"The girl you tried to save." He sighed. "You did all you could, you know. It was too late for her, before we even arrived."

"But I didn't. I didn't do a thing!" The knotted muscles of her back and shoulders felt like exoskeleton. "I keep seeing her face, Doctor. Her slashed throat. Her... blood _._ " She shuddered. "The knife. I tried to pry it out of her hands. But her desperation was so strong, trying to dig out... _something..._ that she said was suffocating her. She was so terrified..." Nyssa's voice wavered and choked.

"Deep breaths," he murmured. "That was a terrible thing to have to witness, Nyssa, especially for someone with your sensitivity. I'm sorry. The trauma will grow less sharp in time." Inwardly seething, he found it difficult to keep his voice level. It was so typical of Nyssa: she had been beaten almost to death, tortured, interrogated for days, and yet the wound that had left the deepest scar was not her own. 

" _My_ trauma?" she said. "What does that matter? Veline is the one who died."

"But her death is not who she was," he said, "and your grieving won't give her life. You have to let her go. I may be able to help, if you'll permit me."

"Block the memory, you mean?" Nyssa pressed the heel of her hand against her temple, as if rubbing away jagged thoughts. "As you do, expunging memories of those you leave behind?" It was not an accusation any longer, just a blunt acknowledgment of the philosophy that kept him sane.

"Letting go is not the same as forgetting. You've done it too," he reminded her. "In fact, you're very good at it. But this time—"

"I've never been so close to a death I couldn't stop," she said tonelessly. 

"It wasn't your fault." Normally, that was her line, trying to absolve him of his failures. "But it's difficult for you to accept that. Your mind's still flailing for reasons, self-blame if that's what it takes, in order to reframe senseless horror into cause and effect, an event that makes some kind of sense."

She sighed. "Nothing on Veln made sense."

"Good intentions and bad, all mixed together in a desperate struggle for survival." As he mulled over the best way to help, a low rumble in the distance warned that another wave of squalls was rolling closer. It was a long walk back to the TARDIS, but he was tempted to suggest it before the skies opened in a fresh deluge. Why had he not thought to check the weather before spending the night outside? "Nyssa, I really do think we ought to come out of the wet, don't you?"

"Oh. Yes. Yes, of course." Shrugging away from him, she slid down and headed for the tent. She looked terribly small, a sprite slipping between shadows of the giant glossopteris trees looming out of the boggy low ground around the hill.

"I'll join you in a moment," he said. "Let me just check the sonic fence." It was a tactful pretext, but extra caution was warranted, especially with her reflexes deadened by shock. Gondwanaland, Pangea's southern Eden, was an unparalleled refuge from the burden of civilization and people, provided one did not run afoul of its horny herbivores and sail-backed predators. Scanning the high canopy of primitive trees, he spotted a shadow floating against the blue-gray backdrop of the clouds. It was a slender reptile, gliding on membraned wings like a dragonfly's. He had hoped the bizarre creatures of this vanished world would intrigue Nyssa, but she was in no shape to appreciate archaeobiology just now. Perhaps later. He circled their pavilion, listening to the soft noises of shifting fabric within as he tallied the indicator lights of the stakes surrounding their campsite. He had to squint as the rain began to hammer in earnest. 

"Are you coming?" she called.

He ducked inside at once. Nyssa was already cocooned in her sleeping bag, sitting up and facing away from him. Averting his gaze from her dripping clothes hung on the line at the back of the tent, he added his coat, socks and trousers, making an unnecessary amount of noise as he, too, sought a measure of modesty in his own sleeping bag. She inched around to face him after he had settled in. Knees drawn in, arms wrapped around herself with the furled edge of the sleeping bag pulled almost to her chin, damp curls sticking to her shoulders, she presented a guarded vulnerability.

"Here." He pulled off his jumper and handed it across. She smiled a little at his casual chivalry and turned away to put it on, somehow making the gesture formal enough not to affront their sense of propriety. Not that he didn't stare at the ceiling.

Small sounds. It was a simple thing, but he remembered how long Nyssa had clung to Traken court garb, like a hermit crab unwilling to relinquish its outgrown shell, even though she had been quicker than most to adapt to the uncertainties and hardships of time travel. Recently, she had begun to forge a new identity for herself. It was no accident that she was finally willing to don other costumes, experimenting with alien fashion. She was a citizen of the universe now, as he was. 

"Very well," Nyssa said, recalling his attention. So much for fashion. She looked decent, if slightly ludicrous, wearing his jumper backwards to make the neckline ride up. "I suppose you're right, Doctor. I need to... deal with this. Intrusive thoughts could be a handicap in a crisis."

 _The next time we face danger again._ The Doctor did not know whether to be relieved or ashamed that she was so ready to shoulder the risks he took. "I didn't mean now, Nyssa. The process can be quite uncomfortable, I'm afraid. We can do it later, once you've rested." 

"Now, Doctor." She folded her hands in her lap. "I'm no use to you like this."

He frowned. "I should hope I don't rate friends by how I can use them."

"No, of course not. That isn't like you at all." Another will-o-wisp smile flickered by. "But this isn't like me, either. Please, Doctor."

"If you're sure." All at once, he regretted his suggestion. He realized that he was about to imitate her interrogators, forcing her to relive the same memories that they had. "Make yourself comfortable, sitting or lying down, whichever you prefer. This will require a light trance." While she gathered the sleeping bag around herself into a lumpy nest, he maneuvered to face her, knees to knees. The Doctor took one of her hands, resting it comfortably on the quilted fabric between them. With his other hand he reached for her face, lightly cupping her cheek and temple. She had been outside for too long. Her skin should have felt warmer than his.

"Now, let yourself breathe deeply," he said, lowering his voice. "Smell the forest. Inhale your surroundings. Remember where you are. A safe place, yes?"

She clasped his fingers more tightly, an answer that did not match her words. "Yes," she said. "Gondwanaland. The Primeval Time of Earth, before humans."

"Good. Now, if at any time you need to stop, I want you to visualize one of those glossopteris leaves you were studying earlier. Take hold of it. Use it to come back here. To the tent. To safety." He hesitated. "To... me. Although I'll be with you throughout this mental journey."

"All right." There was a faint edge of resistance in her tone. Guided imagery spoke strongly to the irrational. However much Nyssa understood that the mind did not function along rational lines, and that one could not heal it without addressing its irrational, emotional depths, suspension of logic was a challenge for her.

"Listen to the rain. Follow the pattern of the drops, but lightly, until your mind unfocuses. Let it lull you." He stopped speaking for a short while, letting the natural music of their environment do the job for him. "Now. Visualize the TARDIS rotor. Watch its movement: up, down. Up, down." He listened to her breathing, since he could not see her clearly in the gray light. At length, her breaths slowed to match that familiar heartbeat. "Good. Keep focusing on that motion, the rise and fall. We're coming in to land."

Her fingers began to relax, her head to droop. He shifted his thumb to support her chin as rigid muscles loosened. Dimly, across the bridge of his fingertips, he could see the console room through her mind's eye, a curiously spartan image, like an illustration on the flat page of a book, missing its five-dimensional structure. At least her psychic sensitivity let her perceive some of the energy radiating from the roundels on a subliminal level, although like humans she could not see the colors.

"The chime sounds to indicate we've landed. The rotor stops." In fact, their touchdown on Veln had been a violent crash landing, but that was irrelevant for this exercise. "You operate the door lever, and we step outside. We find ourselves on a green lawn in a bay between tall hedges. A manor rises in the distance. I leave you by the TARDIS while I go to investigate." She stirred, eyes flickering under lowered lids. The tinge of guilt in his voice was impossible to hide. "You're alone for several minutes. And then you hear another sound above the birdsong, faint, but growing louder. Can you describe it?"

"Yes." She spoke barely above a whisper. "Screaming. Someone's coming. Crashing through the bushes."

Faintly, he could hear the cries, a woman's voice. It was growing louder rapidly. "Do you take cover?"

"No. I shut the TARDIS door behind me. They mustn't get in." He grimaced. She should have shut herself in, not investigated. His bad habits were rubbing off on her. But he supposed she could not flee the cries of a fellow-creature in pain.

Floating halfway between dream and memory, Nyssa began to trail the sounds of ragged breathing, staggering footsteps. A few dark birds cawed and rose from the branches overhead.  

Nyssa caught up to the white-clad figure in the act of scrambling through a gap in the hedge where a broken sprinkler had left a dead patch. The girl's gown was flapping open, bloody bandages trailing from her throat. The Doctor had an impression of short-cropped brown hair and puffy, pink skin. He caught a twist of movement just before Nyssa said, "She's seen me. She freezes for a moment, then she pushes through to the other side."

The impressions were vague, but stark: a stocky woman with her scratched and bleeding arms wrapped around herself, standing like a deer at bay on a broad curb covered in gravel and clinker. Beyond her was a bleak, empty expanse of concrete and steel, bare dirt and grimed buildings, as if they had just stepped through a portal to another planet. Sleek electric vehicles whisked past on the wide thoroughfare at her back. She wavered, evidently trying to decide whether to face her pursuer or plunge directly into traffic. As her right hand edged out from under her left elbow, Nyssa spotted the glint of blood-streaked metal: a surgical knife.

"Don't be frightened," Nyssa said quickly. "I'm not going to hurt you. What's your name?"

The young woman raised her chin, defiant and ragged. Nyssa blanched at the bloody bandages covering her throat. "V-Veline. I'm Veline."

"Veline," Nyssa said. The girl twitched violently at the sound of her own name. "Veline, put the knife down. You don't want to hurt yourself." She took a slow step forward, hands up, empty, reassuring. The Doctor tensed, although he already knew that Nyssa was safe from a fatal stab wound.

"Hurt myself?" Veline gave a gasp of sick laughter. 

"Yes," Nyssa said patiently, concealing alarm. "Just... drop it. Down on the grass there." Veline was trembling now, tears beginning to trickle down her face. "Then you can tell me all about it."

"M-me," she said, the word swallowed by a sob.

"I don't understand," Nyssa said, eyeing the knife. Did she dare make a grab for it?

"Me. _There is no me._ "

"What do you mean?" Nyssa was talking now to distract her, although her mind was racing. Madness? Torture? Medical experimentation, most likely. That would explain the attire. "Is someone chasing you? Is that why you were running—"

" _No,_ " Veline breathed, more to herself than to Nyssa.

"Were you trying to get away from someone?"

Veline was crying harder now, barely intelligible. "Can't get away..."

"Look, you're safe here," Nyssa said, soothing. She was edging closer. If she could just hold the girl's attention long enough to seize the back of her wrist...

Veline had almost forgotten she was there, lost in her own torment. "...never get away. It's suffocating me, strangling me!" She reared back, raising the knife unsteadily. "Got to kill it!"

"What?" Nyssa blanched, reacting to the threat rather than the pronoun. But Veline's attention was focused inwards, a note of visceral loathing in her voice that prompted a sympathetic shudder. "Kill what? What do you mean?"

The Doctor knew what was coming, yearned to wake Nyssa before the dreadful blow could fall. But this was what she needed to face. All he could do now was hold her hand, remain a silent, forgotten presence, observe and watch for any opening that might give her a way through the nightmare.

" _Kill it!"_ the girl snarled, scrabbling at her bandages.

"No, Veline. Put the knife down. _Put the knife down!_ No, you'll hurt yourself!" Horror radiated from Nyssa like water from a broken main. She was deep in the memory now, too deep to remember she was dreaming. The Doctor could not bear to remain passive any longer. _You can't stop her, Nyssa,_ he said in her mind's ear. _Just be with her. Be a witness. Ensure she's not alone_.

The first slash cut deep, but not deep enough to sever the scream. Blood erupted everywhere. Nyssa was crying, half-blinded by the spatter, struggling to seize Veline's hands, but the girl's desperation-fueled strength and slippery fingers shook her off. The blade plunged again, digging, scooping. Even now, the gurgling screams continued. Nyssa was shouting, too, shrill over Veline's cries. "Stop it! Veline, stop it!" There were sirens blaring, the sound of running feet, the dream dissolving into chaos. "Let go of the knife! Let go!"

" _Nyssa,_ " the Doctor cut in. Her fingernails were biting into his hand. He felt the first buffet, the butt of a rifle slamming between her shoulders, and pulled her against him. "Stop. Stop there. I've got you. They can't touch you. Is Veline dead?"

"N-no... yes. Yes, I think so." She was shaking, still drowning in those last terrifying seconds of blood and screams. "I couldn't stop her—"

"And if you weren't standing here, right between them and Veline, the security forces would grab her instead. Wouldn't they? _Wouldn't they?_ "

"I d-don't know."

"Can they overpower her? Knock her down, rip the knife away?"

"Maybe. Oh, Doctor, do you mean she might be alive, if I hadn't—" 

" _No_." He had to be harsh. "They would torture the whole story from her, then execute her. Lady Forleon's entire operation would have been exposed. Everyone involved would have been killed. It would set off a bloodbath."

"Oh." She was trembling, numb, but his words had penetrated. "You mean, she had to die to keep their secret?"

"She was dying already. But because you're here, she hasn't died alone, and the last thing she heard was your compassion instead of the security forces' cruelty. Thanks to you, they won't have a chance to prolong her suffering." He brushed Nyssa's clammy forehead, where her hair was stuck to her skin. "The truth, Nyssa. Can you feel it?"

She fell silent, but he could still feel the welter of guilt and stupefied anguish bleeding out from her. Finally, she ducked her chin in a weak nod. "Y-yes. Poor Veline."

He let her digest that truth for a while before he spoke again. "Is there anything you need to tell Veline? Do you want to say goodbye?"

A gulping sigh. "She's gone, Doctor."

Practical as ever. The dream-state had torn when he put his arms around her. She knew where she was, and the last traces of trance were fading. Still, ceremony provided closure, in more ways than one. All her senses were wide open, raw and exposed. He needed to suture the psychic incision. "All right. Come back. Come back to the TARDIS and close the door. We're leaving. You know the dematerialization sequence. Plasmic shell sealed and locked, engines primed, dematerialize and... away we go. The rotor begins to rise and fall. We're back in the vortex. We're away."

Her whole body sagged, as every muscle let go at once. "Ooh..."

"Well done," he said, holding her tight. His shirt collar was damp from her tears. "I'm sorry. That was even more painful than I had anticipated." 

Nyssa said nothing, limp against his chest. Finally, she registered her surroundings, and weakly made to pull away. 

He sensed her reluctance to withdraw. "Under the circumstances, Nyssa, I think it would be a wise precaution to maintain physical contact for a while, until your mind has settled. A sense of security can ameliorate psychic shock." _Assuming you still feel safe with me,_ he thought.

She looked up, a sudden gentleness in her tone. "Yes, Doctor." He had forgotten that she could receive more easily than she could project. She made no further move to pull back. Resting her cheek against his shirt, she closed her eyes to listen to the rain. The light was growing. Dawn was not far off, now.

"How do you feel?" he said gently.

"Drained." Her voice was muffled. "I think I could sleep all day."

"That might not be a bad idea." He reached around her, pulling the sleeping bag back up to her shoulders and encouraging her to lie down. "A few more hours, at least. Doctor's orders."

They settled alongside one another, face to face. Her small hand pressed against his ribs as if leaning against a wall. Gradually, her breathing began to slow again.

"Doctor," she murmured, long after he thought she had drifted off.

"Mmm?"

"The brushstrokes," she said sleepily. "They don't know what the whole painting looks like, but that doesn't make the slightest difference. They're all part of it. And each stroke matters, of itself."

"Yes. Yes, that's a good way of looking at it." He gazed down at her, experiencing a sudden surge of sentiment towards the frail warm body huddled against him. They all mattered, of course, but some were special. And they could not possibly imagine what colors they showed to his eyes. "Dream well, Nyssa."


End file.
